A Mother's Love
by JakKat
Summary: A story of one woman's inability to cope, and her husbands inability to help... i know, the title's horrible
1. Chapter 1

**December 13, 1981**

Trista Crouch sobbed, heartbroken. Just hours ago, her only child- her son, her husband's namesake- had been led away by those monsters…those dementors. He had been sentenced to an existence worse than death…Doomed to madness, banished from life… by his very father.

"Barty…" she whimpered through the cries, not knowing if she was calling for her son or husband or both. She rocked back and forth on the kitchen floor, heedless of the cold tile chilling her skin. Trista pressed her hands to her face, trying to stifle her tears. Her body shook with the violence of grief. Then she felt the pressure of a hand on her shoulder. Unaware anyone had even been in the kitchen with her, she jumped slightly. Looking down on her with a troubled brow was Barty Crouch.

"Trista, dear-" he started, trying to comfort her. But she pushed him away with a hysterical shriek.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, the first coherent thing she said since fainting at the trail. Trista backed into the cabinets and scrambled away, repulsed by his presence. "Get- get away- don't you dare-" but she collapsed back into tears, unable to say more.

Barty hated to see his wife falling apart, but there was nothing to be done. He knelt beside her, wrinkling his dress robes. He still hadn't changed since leaving the Ministry.

"Trista," he said quietly, about a foot away from her. She ignored him. "Trista," he said again, more firmly. She looked up, gulping back more sobs and stared at him with wide eyes.

"I know you loved him," he began slowly, "I did too." She looked to say something, but Barty stopped her. "I did. How could I not? He was my son, my blood. The pride and joy of my life." His voice caught, showing the emotion he had hidden so carefully earlier. He pursed his lips a moment to regain his composure. "But he made a choice. He did terrible things-"

"You don't know that!" Trista yelled, powerless to hold back her anger. "We don't know if Barty was there or not, there was no evidence, no sign, only the word of that- that _woman_," she spat, and Barty knew she was referring to Lestrange, "and you believed her! Over your own son, you believed that bitch!" Trista bent over, resuming her sobs.

Barty stared at his wife, troubled. In truth, there had been more evidence than Bellatrix Lestrange's testimony. His wand had betrayed him. But he couldn't tell Trista that. Her son in Azkaban was torturing her. If she knew he had actually been a Death Eater, had gleefully followed the Dark Lord- the knowledge would kill her. Barty couldn't do that to her. Better she hate him than become lose her mind to grief. He loved her…god, if she only knew. And he couldn't watch her waste away, couldn't stand to let her slip. Her life, her entire universe, was firmly based on the innocence and purity of her son. If Barty took that away… but no. Better hate take hold of her. Hate would make her strong; she could thrive with hate, because hate meant her foundation remained unshaken. Life, even with hate, was better than death. So Barty would stay silent.

"Trista," he started again. He took a breath as Trista refused to look up at him. If only she would stop crying! "I cannot bend the rules for one man. He is no different than the rest-"

"Yes he is!" she burst forth again. "He's your son!!" She spoke through her sobs, in huge gasping spasms. "He's the boy-oy you raised… w-we raised! And sa-say his na-ame… it's B-b-bart-ty!" She looked up at him now, and Barty nearly fell over at the intensity of her gaze. Salty tears glinted off sickly thin cheeks; her eyes blood-shot, blond strands of hair were tangled and stuck to her face with sweat and tears. But her eyes -so pale it seemed they could see right through him –were strong with despair and accusation.

"Barty is our child," Trista said slowly, deliberately, every word trembling with emotion. "And you sent him to a fate worse than death. You sent him so far away he can never come back. Never." Her voice dropped, exhausted with misery. "My baby," she whispered, and two final tears slid down her face.

Cautiously, carefully, with utmost love and compassion, Barty wrapped his arms around Trista. When she didn't resist, he pulled her close. He tucked her onto his chest, brushing her hair and the tears off her face. He rested his chin on top of her head and leaned against the cabinet. He sighed with his own wretchedness, his own worries. For a while they sat, trying to find solace in the other. When Barty felt she was sufficiently calm, he spoke.

"Please believe me, I love Barty," he said. The name came out with slight difficulty, like an unpleasant taste stuck on his tongue. Trista, fortunately, didn't notice. "But the evidence was stacked against him… I'm not saying it was infallible," he added as she looked up at him with objection on her lips. "But it was enough. I have sentenced men to worse without trial and with half the evidence." Barty sighed again, faces of men flashing in his mind, accompanied, as they often were, with traces of doubt. But it was too late for that.

"How could I make an exception for my son? I have a duty to the community. It wouldn't be right for me to give license to any man, even my son. Can't you please understand?" he finished with a slight plea in his voice.

The thing was, Trista could understand. She was a politician's daughter and now a politician's wife. She knew better than anyone how government worked, how public image worked. As much as she didn't want to admit it, Trista knew Barty had done the right thing… the rational thing. Didn't mean she had to like it.

"But did you have to be so… harsh?" she whispered. "Not in sentencing, but in your actions. In the courtroom. He was screaming, pleading, begging for mercy… couldn't you have given him a sign? Just one bit of…" Trista's voice broke over her last words. "Just recognition, that he is yours."

Another stab of guilt pricked Barty, and he held onto the pain. He deserved it, he knew. "I know." Barty gripped Trista tighter, and she burrowed into him. Together, they rocked on the floor.

"I know."

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Okay folks, you know the drill. The rest of this fic is all but finished, but I aint gonna wanna publish it if I dont get some reviews! Lemme know what you think, and please, be brutally honest. 


	2. Chapter 2

**March 9, 1982**

Trista collected the dishes off the table, china tinkling in her trembling hands. Winky stepped forward, taking the plates and cups from Ms. Crouch.

"I shall take them, mistress," she said humbly. "Do not worry. Winky shall take care of this. Mistress does not look well, she should rest."

Trista smiled sadly at the house elf. "Thank you."

As usual, Winky brushed off the thanks. "Winky is always happy to serve mistress."

Still smiling at the efficient, if highly strung, helper, Trista walked out of the kitchen. Heading for the living room, she stopped at the foot of the stairs. She looked into the living room, decorated in warm reds and yellows with mahogany furniture. Trista turned to the white-carpeted stairs. At the top was a door. She could just see the white frame of the top.

The door was closed.

The door had been closed for about three months now, ever since the trial. Bartemius had closed and locked the door one day and not mentioned it again. Not that Bartemius talked much anymore, about anything.

Slowly, Trista began to climb the stair, clinging tightly to the rail. As she came closer to the door, she pulled out her wand. She did not use it much anymore- she had little need for it- but still carried it with her out of habit. Reaching the door, she tapped the lock lightly. She twisted the knob, but it was still locked.

Frowning slightly, she mustered the energy to try silent magic again, but it didn't work. Trista sighed.

**"**_Alohomora_," she said, finding the spoken spell only slightly easier. But it worked. The latch clicked, and Trista opened the door.

The walls were painted bright yellows, blues, and reds. Sunlight poured into the room from the open window. A bed was in a corner. The sheets were those of a child- they had a pattern of Golden Snitches racing across the material. A bookshelf was full of picture books and stuffed animals. A wardrobe stood in an opposite corner, holding play clothes and child-sized robes for nice occasions and parties. A model broomstick was propped against the wardrobe. Sitting on a dresser were toys and figurines. A bag of Gobstones, some chess pieces (who knew where the board and other pieces were), a miniature dragon. And in the center of the room, a little boy of about four sat on the floor, drawing happily with crayons and paper.

Trista walked toward the boy, a smile caressing her waxen face. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and knelt down. For a few minutes, she watched the boy play quietly. His hair was getting a bit long, Trista thought. He needed a trim- his messy blond locks fell onto his forehead. His milky complexion was presently rosy and healthy looking, as he had just come in from playing in the bright sunlight. A smile sat on his chubby cheeks; he was completely absorbed in his artwork. The child was looked so innocent and happy, Trista nearly cried at the angelic picture.

"Mistress Crouch, what are you doing?" a squeaky voice cried.

Trista turned back to the door. Winky was standing there, looking aghast. Trista turned back to her son, but he was gone. She looked around the room, no longer smiling.

Thick dust covered everything. Long drapes hung on the window, blocking any light. The walls were painted a neutral tan. Dark green sheets lay folded on the unmade bed. A Shooting Star 180 was stashed under the bed. The shelf held only textbooks, their thick spines bound in leather. The wardrobe was stuffed with old Hogwarts uniforms. The dresser was clean of any objects, but in a drawer was a stack of papers, including school essays, exam papers, and O.W.L and N.E.W.T grade reports.

Trista stood up slowly, her expression tight with suppressed tears. Winky, under orders not to enter the room, stood in the hall and gestured frantically for her mistress to come out.

"Master Crouch will not like this," she fretted. "He does not want anyone to enter Master Barty's old room, oh, please do not get Winky into trouble, Mistress-"

Trista walked slowly out of the room, not daring to look back. But as her foot crossed the threshold, she couldn't help but chance one glance.

The room was the same. But little Barty giggled and shrieked as his mother caught him up in her arms, swinging him in circles. Trista turned away quickly from the memory, letting Winky lock the door behind her.

Trista walked down the stairs to lie down in the living room. Upstairs, she heard the laughter of a young child, running away from his mother's playful clutches.

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there ya go- review please! 


	3. Chapter 3

**March 30, 1982**

Barty stepped from the fireplace in a flash of green flames. He had just come off another long day at the Ministry, working as the head of the Department of Law Enforcement. His last day. Barty shook his head, still hardly able to believe his demotion.

Barty placed his cloak on the armchair, along with the _Evening Prophet_ he had picked up before leaving the office.

"Trista?" he called out. Her name seemed to bounce off the high ceilings before fading away into deep silence. He walked into the kitchen, but there was no one there. On the counter was an empty cup; a spoon and soggy teabag were resting on a saucer. Barty walked back into the sitting room, also empty.

"Trista?" he called again. "Winky?"

The house-elf appeared, bowing and scraping. "Yes, master?"

"Where is my wife?"

"Please, sir, she is getting ready for dinner," Winky said. "She asks if you will go to the dining room, she will be down soon."

Barty narrowed his eyes at Winky. Her voice was squeaking even higher than normal and she was twisting her hands in agitation. Even for Winky, this was unusual; something was wrong.

"Is my wife okay?" he asked, suspicious.

Winky trembled. "Mistress is…Mistress asked Winky to prepare special dinner for her family tonight."

"What's the occasion?"

Winky shook her head, causing her bat-like ears to flap from side-to-side. "Please, Master, ask poor Winky no more questions. Mistress will be down soon. Winky must serve dinner."

With some trepidation, Barty left the house-elf and walked into the formal dining room. It hadn't been used in months.

At first, the room looked normal. It had obviously been cleaned and prepared for a special dinner. Fresh candles in the chandelier cast a warm glow; the silverware and plates gleamed in the yellow light. The painting of Great-Uncle William was snoozing in his polished frame, and the carpet was dust-free. Even the salads were already served. Three chilled salad plates sat in front of three wineglasses…

_What?_

Barty blinked and looked again. He counted carefully. Again, he saw three places set for dinner- one at the head of the table, and one to the left and right.

"Barty, you're home!"

Barty turned around to see Trista and his confusion increased. As of late Trista had taken to wearing her house robe all day, with no makeup and hair lank. But tonight, she was wearing pale-blue dress robes, her hair was up in an elegant bun, and her pale cheeks had a healthy looking blush. She looked ready for a business party, like they used to attend.

"Uh, dear?" Barty said cautiously.

"Yes?" Trista asked, smiling slightly and walking to the chair right of the head chair. As she walked by, Barty caught the faint smell of perfume. It was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"What's…the occasion?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing special, really," she said casually. "I just realized this morning how long it's been since we've had a proper sit-down meal." She smiled. "I thought it would make for a nice change."

Barty stared at her, then at the third plate. He didn't want to ask about that plate. It scared him. He really, really, didn't want to know, didn't want to ask. So he didn't.

He smiled at his wife, sat down, and ate his salad. The seat to his left remained empty.

* * *

**April 18, 1982**

Two weeks later, and the third plate hadn't disappeared. Every night Barty came home to a cooked meal and a smiling wife. Every night Trista was dressed up, maybe not as much as that first night, but still fresh and proper-looking. Every night Winky served her master's dinner in the polished dining room. And every night, a third plate was set.

Winky was slowly adjusting to this strange routine. The first night it had happened, Mistress Crouch had given the house-elf very specific instructions.

"Winky, tonight dinner is going to be different," she had said. Mistress was sitting in front of her vanity in her bedroom, staring at her pale complexion in the mirror. An array of foundation, blush, lipstick, eye shadow, and powder was set in front of her. Mistress was wrapped in her flimsy bed robe, open at the neck. Winky could see her chest bones pressing against the skin.

"I want to have a real meal," Mistress continued. "I want a salad, a main entrée, and a dessert served. I want the main entrée to have a meat, two vegetables, and two varieties of bread. I want a different wine for each course, to compliment the food. Is that clear?"

"Yes, mistress," Winky had said, bowing and turning to leave to prepare the meal.

"Oh, and Winky."

"Yes, mistress?"

"Be sure you make enough."

Winky was slightly puzzled as to why Mistress was reminding her, but she bowed anyway. "Of course mistress."

"I want my boys to be well-fed tonight."

Winky froze. "Mistress?"

For the first time, Mistress turned to look at Winky. "You heard me."

"Yes mistress," Winky said quickly, bowing again. "So Winky should make enough food for h-how many, then?" Her words faltered under her mistress' gaze.

"For three, of course."

"Of course," Winky repeated. Quickly she left. But before she could get downstairs, she heard her mistress laugh. Stopping on the first step, Winky listened hard. Again she laughed, and this time Winky could hear mistress talking.

Wondering if mistress was calling for Winky again, she walked back to the partially closed door. She was about to walk in when mistress spoke.

"No, dear," she was saying in that same laughing voice Winky had heard before. "Perfume is only for ladies, not little boys."

Slowly, Winky pressed her eye to the crack. Her knees were knocking with fear, but she was too scared to leave (what if mistress needed her help?) and too scared to enter the room. Torn, she could only stand there as mistress talked to thin air.

"No, don't play with that…it's very expensive…_this_ is Daddy's favorite…he bought it for me when you were born…" Mistress was spraying perfume onto her wrist and neck, talking animatedly with her reflection in the mirror. It was apparent, however, she wasn't talking to herself.

Winky backed away quietly, watching the door. When she felt she was a safe distance away, she turned and flew down the stairs.

Since then, every night had been the same. Mistress would call Winky into her bedroom about mid-afternoon to give her the evening's menu, always for three. And once Winky left, she could hear her mistress laughing and talking to…

…But Winky didn't dare finish that thought.

Barty ate the last bite of his trifle, placing his fork on the plate delicately so as not to break the silence. Trista was still playing with her dessert. Her face was a closed book, not even her eyes, once so readable, showed the thoughts behind them. Barty watched her, concerned.

"Do you not want your dessert, Trista?" Barty finally ventured to say. She jumped slightly, looking up startled. She gave him a wide-eyed stare. Then she shook her head.

"Oh- I suppose I'm not very hungry tonight."

"Why not?"

Trista tried to smile, but it came out as a facial twitch. "It's just…he's not here."

A cloud came over Barty's face. "Who?" he asked, his voice oddly constricted.

"Barty." Trista's husband said nothing, but the cloud darkened. Trista, who had her eyes fixed straight ahead, didn't notice. "I thought if I set his place at the table, he would come back."

"Trista-" the harshness of Barty's voice snapped her attention to his face. His eyes were dark and angry, he was sitting rigid in his chair, and the premature lines of his face seemed somehow more pronounced than usual.

"He can't come back, you know that," he said. Trista felt the tears well up, and she tried vainly to blink them away.

"I know," she said, her voice growing fainter with every word. "I just thought if I could pretend-"

"Pretend what?" Barty's voice, unlike Trista's, was becoming stronger, his words spitting from his mouth like bullets from a gun. Trista couldn't look in his face, instead choosing to stare at the limp salad still sitting in the seat opposite of her.

"Pretend like he was still here, you know, a child…" The tears were crawling down her cheeks. "I tried to ignore what had happened, go back to when he was little…was such an affectionate little boy…"

Barty's face softened, just a fraction. "Did it work?"

Trista shook her head. Her tears were falling on her plate now. "When I talked to him, I could hear him. I could even see him…but I couldn't hold him." She started to rock, just slightly. "I hold out my arms, waiting for him to come…but when he did, I couldn't touch him…"Her voice was cracking. "He would start crying, because he couldn't climb in my lap…but I just- I couldn't hold him…I couldn't feel my little boy…"

Barty sighed, worry replacing anger. "Trista…" he searched for the right words, the right phrase that would help his wife. "I'm sorry."

Trista sniffed and wiped the tears of her cheeks, but said nothing.

"Maybe…maybe the best thing is just to forget him." Now Trista reacted.

"Forget him? Forget Barty, our only child…like he never existed?" Trista stood, scraping her chair against the wood floor. "No!"

Barty stood too, at a loss. "I just mean…don't torture yourself like this, brining back a time that's dead."

Trista stared at him, her mouth set. "How can I forget Barty?" Her bottom lip gave a bit, trembling. "He's the only thing I ever think _about_."

There followed a very deep silence. Then Trista left without another word, leaving Barty alone. He could hear her stalk up the stairs, closing a door (probably of her bedroom) with a heavy hand. He stood there for several minutes before finally speaking.

"Winky?"

The house-elf appeared. "Yes, Master Crouch?"

"From now on, prepare dinner for two, unless I say differently."

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so...whatcha think? 


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